


僕だって信念があった (even i had faith in something once)

by haillenarte



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Sex, Crossdressing, Forced Prostitution, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Role Reversal, Strangulation, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:01:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24914272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/haillenarte/pseuds/haillenarte
Summary: Written in sixteen hours; "Yotsuyu and Asahi role reversal" AU. In times of hardship, Asahi thinks of the sun.
Relationships: Asahi sas Brutus/Zenos yae Galvus
Comments: 12
Kudos: 51





	僕だって信念があった (even i had faith in something once)

**Author's Note:**

> 人生は妥協の連続なんだ  
> そんなこと疾うにわかってたんだ
> 
> Life is just one compromise after another  
> I learned that pretty fast

What Asahi hates the most about the weeding of the rice fields is the work of it. The sweat of it. The _heat_ of it — the sun blazing overhead and lashing the nape of his neck where it already drips with perspiration. The wet mud squelching beneath his toes with every step. The leaves digging into his hands. The dirt staining his pale skin brown where it isn't red from the sun. Unlike most in Doma, he never tans; he only peels and burns. Such irony, that a boy named for the dawn should shrivel so pitifully beneath it.  
  
When he is done, his father drags him out of the fields by his thin wrists and tells him that he has not done enough. He thrusts a hoe into Asahi's hands and tells him to till the soil, then boxes Asahi around the ears for good measure. Asahi doesn't protest; he doesn't have the breath. He lies in the rice paddy where he has landed for a time, the muddied water soaking into his clothes. The boy is too dizzy from the blow to stand, but he tries desperately to blink the stars away from his vision so he can push himself to his feet and proceed with the rest of his chores. His father has little sympathy for his predicament. A kick to the ribs makes Asahi cough out some mud he didn't realize he had swallowed — and then, mercifully, the man walks away.  
  
Asahi lies on his back for a time, his throat dry and his mouth reeking of the earth, staring up at the unforgiving sun.  
  
He thinks on how wonderful it would be to die.  
  
But death has no intention of coming for his young body, at least not yet, and eventually, Asahi tells himself that there is no point in dwelling on fantasies. If the kami are merciful, perhaps he will be allowed to bathe himself in the river once the tilling is done. Perhaps he will sneak himself a few mouthfuls of clean water then. He will finish his work, and then his father will beat him, and his mother will come up with some excuse to beat him, too — they do this less for crimes he has committed and more because it helps them to feel better about themselves. Then, at the end of the day, he will be given some of yesterday's rice or a few pieces of pickled daikon, and he will close his eyes in the tool shed, and fall asleep there.  
  
Halfway through the tilling, he looks up and finds Yotsuyu watching him from the edge of the road.  
  
Yotsuyu, always staring at him with her cold and beautiful gaze, and then looking away as if she has seen nothing more interesting than an ant crawling through the dirt, or a cicada on a tree.  
  
He does not call out to her. He bends his head once more and continues tilling the earth, while she continues walking down the road, balancing a paper parasol upon her shoulder, protected from the unrelenting sky.  
  
This is the way of things, he knows. Yotsuyu is their parents' true-blooded daughter; he is their half-blooded son, the child they had not wanted to take in. And Yotsuyu is beautiful — even he will admit as much. Their parents dote upon her, for her great beauty can only be a gift from the gods. Her eyes are the color of the moon on a starlit night. By contrast, Asahi is nothing more than the most common, most coarse kind of Doman boy, with eyes like iron and hair like straw.   
  
She will have anything she desires and everything they can afford. She will have an imperial education, and be betrothed to a Garlean officer, and thus will the future of House Naeuri be secured.  
  
All of the fruits of Asahi's labor will be fed to her in neat little slices of persimmon.  
  
When at last the sun has begun to set, Asahi stumbles to his feet, his toes wrinkled and back aching. His traitorous stomach is begging for food it will not receive. He ignores all of his body's complaints; there is no helping any of it. Mud-stained and sweat-stained, he stumbles back to the house, where he finds his mother engaged in conversation with a Garlean soldier.  
  
Whatever is left of his heart sinks in his chest. He already knows he's made a mistake.  
  
The soldier's eyes are already on him, so there's no point in pretending not to exist. Asahi lowers his gaze. "I've finished tilling the field, Mother," he says quietly, in a voice husky with disuse.  
  
His mother's face turns red with restrained fury. His appearance disgraces her, he knows. "Asahi!" she snaps. "Get inside!"  
  
Ordinarily, this would be an uncommon act of mercy. In this case, Asahi knows, she only means to keep him out of sight for the moment, and will give him a thorough thrashing for his transgressions later. "Yes, Mother," he answers — not without an edge of begrudgement still — and he makes his way up the hill towards their home.  
  
He can hear the Imperial solder speaking in a befuddled tone over his shoulder. "You did not mention that you had a son," the man says, in a tone that implies several questions.  
  
"He is my sister's, not mine," his adoptive mother answers tersely. "But she is dead, and so it falls to me to raise him."  
  
"He is of age to receive an education, is he not?" the soldier observes as Asahi trudges up the dirt path towards the house where he does not belong. "I trust I need not remind you of your legal obligations —"  
  
Asahi can imagine the expression on his mother's face without looking. Now she has to think quickly. Asahi is of more use to her as a farmhand than as a child whose education must be tolerated and whose open mouth must be fed and paid for. "No, no, but he is — he is _slow_ ," she lies, rather unconvincingly. "You saw how he was soiled. It would not be worth the Empire's expense to educate him. He will never hold a position of value within Garlemald."  
  
"Is that so?" the soldier asks. Asahi can feel the man's eyes upon him, but it is all for naught; he has reached the door to the house. "I see," he can hear the soldier saying, before he closes the door behind him. "I see."  
  
  
  
He thinks about running away, of course. Anyone would. But the trouble with running is that everyone in his village knows him, and would return him to the Naeuri home if he were found. His legs are not strong enough to carry him to the next settlement over; at best, he might collapse three-fourths of the way there. He might be spotted by Garlean soldiers and shot on sight as a possible rebel operative. He might _die_ , in other words, and the thing about his parents is that for all their cruelty throughout all his years, they have never planned to _kill_ him.  
  
That's the only reason he can think up to stay — but the truth might simply be that he is a coward, and he doesn't have the courage to run.  
  
At the very least, he no longer wants to die.  
  
When he turns seventeen years of age, it becomes all too clear that he will never broaden into the kind of thickly muscled laborer that would be of true use to his parents. Sixteen was already pushing it. They gave him the extra summer to see if anything would come of him, but obviously, no miracles occurred, and he did not transform into a strapping Roegadyn overnight. Years of half-starvation have left him unusually slight for a young man his age, and his bones are brittle, so brittle that his wrists have snapped a half-dozen times in his father's fists.  
  
He is so chronically weak that he doesn't have the strength to fight even an aging man — so there's not much he can do when, one evening, his foster father bursts into his tool shed and hauls him to his feet.  
  
"Get up," his father says. "I am taking you to be sold."  
  
Asahi is not the boy he once was: despite the futility of the struggle, he nevertheless fights and bites and kicks at his father half the way to town. The man has no patience for his writhing, however — not tonight. After one particularly desperate swipe of his hands, Asahi's father places both hands around his neck and damn near squeezes the life out of him, leaving him gasping and heaving and crumpled in the dirt.   
  
"Worthless boy. Have you learned your lesson yet?" his father sneers, nudging him back to his feet with his knee. "Be grateful. Jifuya is a kinder man than I. He will not do this to you — and you had best not do the same to him, lest he bring you back to me."  
  
Asahi gives up trying to run free after that. He allows himself to be taken, empty-eyed and empty-headed, to Jifuya's brothel, where his father thrusts him towards the proprietor like a dying kitten by the collar.  
  
"My son, Asahi — take him off my hands," Asahi's foster father says, quite without preamble. "He is seventeen, and he will need to be trained, and he is _ugly,_ but he resembles a boy still. Men will pay for that."   
  
Jifuya stares with such obvious befuddlement at this abrupt proposal from one of his longtime customers that Asahi suddenly doubts that his father even previously discussed this with Jifuya at all. The boy has no hope left in him, not even the barest scrap of faith, but he looks up: the brothel-owner has a rounder nose and a kinder face than his father, and the abject cruelty of this offer has made his brow furrow. Perhaps that is mercy reflected in his eyes. Perhaps only greed. Asahi wouldn't know. He knows little of the world beyond the abuses of his foster parents.  
  
Asahi has never owned a mirror, but he knows something of his own face from his murky reflection in the river or the edge of a kitchen knife, and he knows he is not any kind of beauty fit for a brothel. But whores need not be beautiful.  
  
Perhaps Jifuya makes the same judgment when he replies, in a measured tone, "How much do you want for him?"   
  
When they are done haggling over his price and his father leaves with his sack of coin, Jifuya looks at Asahi and tells him, not unkindly, to come inside.  
  
There are little mercies. Before all else, Jifuya strips him of his eternally dirty patchwork hanten — standing naked in an unfamiliar room, Asahi thinks he might vomit on an empty stomach — but this is only to inspect him for disease and disfigurement. After some time, Jifuya leaves. Asahi thinks fruitlessly of running. Then the man returns with a plain cotton kimono, and tells him to dress himself. He tells Asahi to introduce himself to the other courtesans. He tells Asahi that there is warm rice and fish in the dining hall, and that he can eat as much as he likes.  
  
He doesn't ask Asahi for anything else.  
  
Asahi stands alone in the brothel's foyer, wondering if there's some kind of catch.  
  
There isn't, for a time. For several long fortnights, he is not expected to do anything more than eat, and rest, and recover from his various perpetual injuries. He sleeps longer than he has ever slept in his life. But he isn't naive, and he isn't a fool, either; he knows what awaits him in the future. Every now and then, Jifuya calls Asahi to his quarters and instructs him to strip, if only to inspect his fading bruises and the stark bones of his ribs — then he dismisses Asahi, and allows the women to teach him how to play games and pour sake. _But it will come,_ Asahi thinks. _Like a dark cloud, fat with storm over the horizon. It will come._  
  
And then, at last, that brief moment of peace comes to its end. One evening, Jifuya calls Asahi to his chamber, and Asahi has no bruises, no cuts to mar his pale skin. His farmhand's sunburns have faded. His body has filled out its slender lines, and his ribs no longer protrude from his sides.  
  
There is nothing left about him that would displease a patron, in other words, and Jifuya seems to come to the same conclusion. "That will do," the brothel owner says, with clinical satisfaction. "Come, Asahi. Let me teach you how to service a man."  
  
  
  
When they are finished, Jifuya leaves the room — but he must say _something_ to _someone_ , as one of the other courtesans enters not long after. Kohagi is nearly too old to ply her trade, but she has kindly eyes marred by lips too thin for her face, and it was she who taught Asahi how to play koi-koi and tell jokes to amuse Imperial soldiers. Now she has come, Asahi knows, to comfort him.  
  
She tuts at the way Asahi is lying on his back with his kimono loose; she pulls it closed over him, trying to get him to sit up so that she can pull his sash tight. "Poor thing," she says consolingly, warmly, with an infuriating sweetness that only serves to make light of the way he feels sick to his stomach. "The first time is the worst, I promise you. After this, it will be better."  
  
Asahi would recognize her touch as maternal if he had ever known a proper mother. Instead, he simply swats her hands away, snarling though he knows she means him no harm. "I can dress myself," he snaps. He jerks his kimono roughly over his shoulders; he still feels like throwing up. "I need neither you nor _him_ to remind me of what we are."  
  
She is still looking at him as though he is something to be pitied. "You could grow to enjoy it. It will be easier for you if you do."  
  
He can't stand the way she is looking at him — with affection and not with hatred. "Shut up! Shut your whore mouth!"  
  
"Asahi," Kohagi calls, patient and unbothered, and it is not Jifuya's abuse of his trust, but her _complicity_ , somehow, that makes him wish he could burn the entire brothel to the ground.  
  
He ties his garments together roughly, sloppily; he wants to go somewhere; he doesn't know where to go. He escapes, fruitlessly, to the garden. He leaves Kohagi behind.  
  
Later that very same day, he is informed that his name has been added to the brothel's roster at last, and that his first client has called upon him. A man from a neighboring village has visited under cover of night — it would not do for others to know that he is interested in the brothel's most recent acquisition. He has but recently lost a son, and seeks comfort, now, from Jifuya's young male courtesan.  
  
_Disgusting_.  
  
Asahi almost laughs the minute he is informed of the son's tragic passing. _Fell off a cliff while picking mulberry leaves. A_ _suicide, more like._ He becomes certain of it after he plies the man with wine; his customer drinks, cries for his loss, drinks still more, cries even harder. "I loved him," the man claims, hoarsely. "I loved my boy, and he left me. Is that such a sin? To love too much?"  
  
Asahi hates him. He wants to strangle the man, to tear his eyes from his head, to step on his throat. But he knows better than to scorn the relatively decent hand he's been dealt. A patron that weeps too much is far better than a patron who grows violent when drunk.  
  
At seventeen, Asahi is certain of one thing: he knows little of the world, but he will learn to pull its strings. And one day, perhaps, he will be better than this.  
  
For now, he has the misfortune of entertaining a man who loved his son _too much,_ and that is why he curves his lips into a joyless smile, and leans upon the man's arm. Then he purrs, very sweetly, "Dry your tears, Father. Here I am for you — all yours."  
  
  
  
When he becomes an imperial spy, it isn't because he expects to be offered citizenship overnight. It isn't even because he is especially loyal to Garlemald, or because he longs for the betterment of Doma beneath imperial rule. He does not even feel any particular hatred for Lord Kaien's rebellion. No, Asahi starts spying largely because he is _bored_ , and because he has learned, by now, that he has kept a sharp mind idle for too many years.   
  
Even without a proper education, he is keener than most others would think him: he is quick to lie and even quicker to charm with insolent wit. He has learned how to play the roles that his clients expect of him. Coaxing secrets from the men who bed him is only a means of giving himself something better to do than lie back and stare at the ceiling and think of the relentless sun. It gives him something to work for — something to strive for.  
  
Something better than the knowledge that he has never been more than an abused son of House Naeuri and a male prostitute for imperials to gawp at.  
  
(Inwardly, Asahi chafes. Ten years as a whore, and he has yet to better his position.   
  
All that's happened is that he's grown used to his place.)  
  
Under Garlean guidance, Asahi has moved to other brothels, establishments far more grand than Jifuya's decrepit little cathouse — now he wears kimonos of extravagant silk and not of cotton, mostly because the illusion of beauty helps whenever a client has gotten deep enough into his cups to forget whether Asahi was supposed to be a woman or a man. There are still other courtesans who make better spies, who can bewitch with their lashes and their lips and their sweet singing voices, but Asahi's chief use is as something of a novelty, a forbidden indulgence. Some officers have been trained well enough to distrust the whores that entertain them, but now and then, they forget their training when they are presented with a man in women's clothing instead.  
  
So he finds it _strange_ when he is told that he has been entrusted with seducing no less a target than Lord Zenos yae Galvus. His superiors know he is no bewitching beauty; he is not the kind of harlot one chooses to _impress_. Something is amiss.  
  
He has learned, by now, to couch his suspicions in amusement. "You would have me entertain a legatus?" Asahi laughs, addressing his handler like an old friend. Now he is better at making himself look sincere; his dark eyes speak of infinite mirth. "And a potential heir to the throne, at that! Come now, Shiden, you know better than to play me for a fool. What game is afoot? Surely the viceroy has no shortage of beautiful women who would better suit such a man."  
  
As an imperial intelligence officer, Shiden has always been vaguely handsome in an inscrutable way; now, as always, there is no particular expression upon his face. He visits Asahi under the guise of being yet another customer, but he has never even once asked Asahi to do him any favors. "He does, but he has already heard from the Thavnairian emissaries that Lord Zenos has never been one to be impressed by women. Dancers, singers, courtesans — all have failed to capture his interest." The officer shrugs. He sits fully dressed, cross-legged, upon a chair and not the cushions where a patron would usually lie. "Why not then try a kagema like you? Powerful men have kept stranger secrets."  
  
Asahi examines his face in a mirror, turns his face to admire the feminine lines of his jaw. He lines the ends of his eyelids with a red powder. "Perhaps I shall not succeed where others have failed."  
  
Shiden sits unmoving — and ordinarily, Asahi knows, the man is unblinking. Yet something uneasy flicks across his expression as he lowers his brown eyes. "We expect from you no miracles, Asahi. You need only try."  
  
Asahi knows better. In his world, _trying_ has rarely ever been enough.  
  
And Shiden is lying to him, but it won't do him any good to point that out to a man who is authorized to kill him if necessary.  
  
He closes the lid of his compact mirror and gives his handler a perfunctory smile. He suspects he might be able to play this by both ends and still come out of it alive. "I should like to meet this Lord Zenos," he lies smoothly, with nothing to betray him in the flick of his irises. "Let us see if I will be the one to loosen his tongue."  
  
  
  
Yet — from the outset, he thinks, everything is wrong. This could have never gone as planned. Despite the warmth of the evening, the stifled air of their private room, Zenos has chosen to sit in full armor, removing only his helm to drink wine while Asahi pours it for him. His sultriest greeting, his most wheedling questions, his wittiest remarks — all have thus far gone unanswered, and the one thing the prince has consented to thus far is the imbibement of the sake in his cup.  
  
Again, Asahi attempts conversation, but he no longer expects a response. "The wine, at least, seems to be to your taste," he observes, allowing one edge of his kimono to slip further down his shoulders under the pretense of heaving a sigh.  
  
As anticipated, Zenos says nothing in return. If he is moved by the liquor, if he is entertained at all by the diminutive Doman man waiting on his every whim, he does not show it. He only goes on staring into the infinite distance, his eyes empty and serene and blue.  
_  
What is he waiting for?_  
  
Asahi lets the silence drag on for a time before — unable to bear the rather awkward tension — he tries again. "Is this your first time being waited upon by a man, my lord?"  
  
At last this rouses Zenos, but not quite in the way that Asahi expects. "It seems to me no different than being waited upon by a dog," the prince replies curtly, his voice dripping with boredom.  
  
For a moment, Asahi is so insulted that his mask slips and a muscle in his neck pulses with the urge to poison the man's drink, but he soon recomposes himself, and sets his anger aside. "I did not mean to displease you," he murmurs with false humility, lowering his eyes. "Let us set aside all pretense, Lord Zenos. If I have failed to amuse you, then you might simply tell me. I do so hate to waste my breath. Perhaps one of my sister courtesans would serve you better."  
  
"I said nothing of being unamused." Again, the prince empties yet another cup, his thirst evidently still not quenched. After another moment, his empty blue gaze falls on Asahi and focuses on his face. Something like interest finally seizes the legatus, and his thick-lashed eyes narrow. "Tell me," he says slowly, "what manner of place is this Doma?"  
  
At first, Asahi reaches for a reflexive, perfunctory response — something about Doma being a land of fertile land, or clear waters, or beautiful women — but when he looks up, the _intensity_ of Zenos's gaze catches him off-guard. Bereft of self-protections, he finds his mind clear of lies, of plots, of practiced lines. He thinks of the brilliant sun.  
  
"I am weary of your empty chatter," Zenos warns. "Tell me of that hateful look in your eyes. For one fleeting moment, you imagined killing me, did you not? But you lack the strength. You are no warrior." He leans back, very slightly, which is more relaxation than several cups of wine have brought. "How did you come by such hatred?"  
  
A crack of lightning and a roll of thunder punctuate Zenos's question — suddenly, Asahi remembers that the sunlight isn't burning his face anymore, and in fact, it is storming outside.  
  
Stripped of his walls, Asahi can only cast his own empty gaze out of the window towards the rain beyond. "By the first blow my father gave me, I suppose? Or perhaps the thousandth." He wants to laugh, but can't quite manage one; he only shrugs his bare shoulders and pours more wine. "Doma is the kind of land where men like me can make a living by pretending to be boys, my lord. It is a country of people so skilled at pretending to be blind that it might well be full of worms. Its people are beyond salvation."  
  
Asahi might have continued in that same calm tone, but Zenos rises from his seat. Something else has caught his attention; Asahi furrows his brow. He follows the prince's gaze, uncomprehending, unseeing —  
  
— and then the windows shatter.  
  
Then, and only then, does the viceroy's plan finally become clear to Asahi.  
  
Ah, of course.  
  
He is going to die here.  
  
They had chosen him to die for no better reason than that he was the most disposable of their whores.  
  
"Damn them!" Asahi swears, stumbling to his feet and half-tripping on the hem of his elaborate kimono.  
  
It's too late by the time he reacts, of course. The room is filled with shinobi in an instant, or rather by men dressed as shinobi — Asahi has met true Doman ninjas in his line of work, and he can see by the look of them that these are naught more than paltry imperial imitations. Of course. Doma's viceroy supports Titus in his bid for the Garlean throne — why not take the opportunity to kill Varis's son when given the chance? What price the life of one spying bitch or another?  
  
_All this time, after all this time —  
_  
But it is all over in seconds. The assassins are efficient if naught else, and they leap for Zenos's life without further explanation, but the prince does not even need to reach for the sword he has set against the wall. Asahi's next impression is merely that of blood spattered against the tatami mats, of figures clad in black slumping to the floor, of someone's head bumping against his foot.  
  
Reflexively, he steps upon it as he would stop a rolling ball, and finds a dead man's lips beneath his toes.  
  
He feels no particular revulsion, but it reminds him too much of the wet squelching in the rice paddy, so he kicks the severed head aside.  
  
"What a miserable hunt."  
  
Asahi isn't certain whether it was he or Zenos who spoke.  
  
The panic soon subsides, though the beating of his heart is too loud in his ears. He will not die here, not after twenty-seven empty years of drought; he has been saved.  
  
When he looks up, Zenos is looking down at him, at the way he so carelessly kicked a man's life aside.  
  
The connection is electric for one burning instant. The prince drops the blade he borrowed from one of his attackers. He strides closer to Asahi, towers over him, makes him feel helpless and fragile as a doll. He brings his lips close to Asahi's painted face. Power seems to roll off him in waves.  
  
Zenos is transcendent and divine in a way that his father never was, and at last Asahi understands: the kami have forsaken him, if ever they existed at all.  
  
This man, _this man_ is his one true god.  
  
"You had just begun to tell me a more interesting tale," Zenos whispers, his voice low and dark and laden with something suspiciously like desire. "What is your name?"  
  
  
  
His appointment as the next viceroy is celebrated by no one, but Asahi has no intention of forcing his people to celebrate. Why would they? The old viceroy, at least, was a man from a bakufu branch family. He was a man with some dignity in his blood and the misfortune of backing the wrong party in succession to the Garlean throne. Asahi, on the other hand, is an insult to Doman values. He is exactly the sort of person that polite Doman society would have turned away from — and now they cannot turn away from him at all.  
  
So he keeps his brushes and his rouges and his painted nails, and he continues to wear his elaborate kimonos with their half-tied obis. He makes it plain that he is a man with little virtue left to lose — and when he grinds his people beneath his heel, he is all the while whispering, _I was a whore, and you are no better than me. Never again will you pretend that you cannot see between the shadows._  
  
In Doma, Asahi learns, people bend before they break. He isn't interested in the breaking of men, however — only the bending. Broken men do not serve the purposes of his Lord Zenos, though Zenos himself may think otherwise; he is well aware that his god and crown prince allows the Skulls to run wild in Ala Mhigo, but he knows from experience that despair breeds mules and not predators. The boy who was beaten and starved and broken in a rice paddy had not the strength to pick up a weapon in rebellion against his masters.  
  
So he allows his people little mercies — pleasures as meager as the rice and fish served in a brothel kitchen. He ensures that there is always enough to eat, that they may sup and grow strong enough to lift their blades, but he sows personal tragedies in every village, that they will never grow complacent. That they will always hate the Empire. Asahi never crushes the rebellion outright — he only stokes its fires long enough for the bitterness to fester and develop like the flavors of a stew. He takes special pleasure in crushing the samurai families, of executing aging parents over perceived slights in order to leave the children hateful, yet alive. It's nothing personal. It's just that there is nothing in Doma like a samurai scorned.  
  
In autumn, at last, his efforts pay off. A charismatic young man from a once-prominent warrior family, Ugetsu, takes up his blade and declares war against the Empire; he and his sister Kagetsu have begun organizing a second Doman Resistance group, one to continue the legacy that Kaien Rijin's failed rebellion began. _They call him the Slayer of a Thousand Souls, and he is the pupil of the legendary samurai Kogarashi._ Asahi sends word to his Lord Zenos once an attack on Doma Castle seems imminent.  
  
Later, when Ugetsu is slain and his corpse lies motionless in the grass, Asahi strides out to the proving grounds in Monzen, allowing the breeze to ruffle his hair. "How did you find the battle, my lord?" he asks in a low purr, like a cat presenting its master with a gift.  
  
"Dull," Zenos replies, though the clash lasted more than several minutes. "Vivid, for one fleeting moment. Then he succumbed to panic, and his movements grew predictable. That is the trouble with quarry intelligent enough to know when it will die."  
  
"Then I apologize for wasting your trip," Asahi answers, without hesitation. "Our reports indicated that he was a greater swordsman than even Lord Kaien. He single-handedly crushed three of our detachments ere I began to think him worth your time."  
  
"Indeed." Zenos sounds bored, but then he always does; Asahi has long lost his sense of fear in the crown prince's presence. "Your Kaien was a disappointment, too."  
  
Kaien's legacy was not Asahi's doing — the last king of Doma preceded Asahi's appointment as viceroy — but then everything in Yanxia must be all the same to Zenos, so long as Asahi sits upon its throne. The Hyur does not correct Zenos. He holds his tongue and maintains his smile.  
  
At last Zenos stirs, gazing at some point over the horizon, towards the cliffside. "The girl. She escaped."  
  
"Yes, my lord. Kagetsu is her name. She is known to be inferior to her brother Ugetsu, but she will return, I am sure. If she is as bright a girl as her people claim, she will grow stronger. Give her another summer, perhaps two — she will return to revenge him. Then she will offer you greater sport."  
  
"Perhaps." Zenos's voice is doubtful beneath the muffle of his helm, but finally, _finally_ , the legatus turns to look at his viceroy. Winning the glare of his undivided attention always feels like claiming some reward; Asahi's heart races, but Zenos only has eyes for the ever-untouched revolver stowed in Asahi's silk belt. A pragmatist's armament, not that the viceroy has ever proven himself especially proficient with its use. "You remain a poor huntsman, Asahi. Yet... you have taken well to the role of hound. The buzzards in the capital whispered that you were too soft on your own people, but I see now that this land is merely not bled dry of its beasts."  
  
"My policies are enacted only to cultivate the finest prey for your hunt," Asahi replies, his pulse fluttering in his chest. He would bow if Zenos had any taste for such gestures. "Does my lord praise me with his words?"  
  
Zenos turns away. "Do with that as you will," he says. Then, after a pause too long to be deliberate, he adds: "Come to my quarters after you have seen to your men here."  
  
Asahi tries not to have expectations. There are any number of reasons that his Lord Zenos might summon him for a private conversation, and most of them end in decapitation. _But even that would be glorious. Oh, to die at my master's hand._ He does not need powders or creams to stain his cheeks now. Blushing like an innocent girl, Asahi sweeps at his face with a fan and orders his men to round up their wounded and cease pursuit of Ugetsu's rebels.  
  
Zenos did not give him a time frame in which he was to arrive, but Asahi is not fool enough to keep his liege lord waiting for too long. He takes time enough merely to freshen the wet gloss on his lips before he announces himself in Zenos's quarters, and is vaguely, dully surprised to find the prince abed and out of his armor.  
  
Anticipation rolls like a festival drum in Asahi's chest.  
  
Zenos does not wait on Doman tradition, but something like nostalgia seizes Asahi as he steps, almost prowling, into the chambers of his god. Once he has come near enough to the frame of the bed as he dares, he bows in the most formal way, upon his knees, both hands prostrate before him, lowering his forehead almost enough to touch his knuckles. His sleeves swept out beside him are the picture of Hingan elegance. "My lord," Asahi murmurs, and he does not lift his head until he is addressed.  
  
Zenos lounges on his side, lazy as a coeurl off the hunt, and only half-hums in response.  
  
It is good enough for Asahi to lift his head. "How may I serve?"  
  
Silence, for a time, and then words in that low, slow voice. "I thought longer on the kind of hound you are," Zenos says eventually, by way of greeting. "Not a killer, no — but that pleasure is for the hunter. You are small-framed. Poor of endurance and strength. But you scent prey, you flush it out, you course well. If you only barked less and could bring me more satisfying quarry, you might be an adequate companion in my hunt."  
  
"I am honored by your favor, Lord Zenos," Asahi answers, undeterred by what seems to him appropriate criticism. He knows well enough that Zenos promises nothing, nothing beyond an ephemeral approval that might be revoked in the very next minute, but this is a compliment nonetheless. Still, this explains little. Zenos is not the kind of man who would waste his viceroy's time on _praise_. "But — you need not have summoned me privately to tell me this," he ventures, a little timidly, after a pause.  
  
Zenos closes his eyes as if he is weary of the world around him. "Today's hunt," he answers, after another long pause. "The samurai. He was ultimately poor sport, but he entertained me for a moment. Indeed, a moment. Nothing so exhilarating as true euphoria, but that battle brought me... passing elation." He leans back against his bedsheets. "I shall forget him by the morrow, but for now, at least, for _now_ — you have earned yourself a reward. One prize to please a willing hound. Name your desire. Power? Another province? Naught would interest you in the capital."  
  
Asahi rises to his feet. Zenos is not displeased with him, so he ventures closer, seating himself upon the edge of the bed. Never before has he felt quite so small. "I need no reward save the honor of serving you, my lord," he answers, for he believes this to be the truth.  
  
"A predictable answer," Zenos replies. "And a pitiful lie. I have no interest in your platitudes, viceroy. I have ever known you to be a hungry, whining pup. You have one more chance to speak true."  
  
Of course. Of course. His lord always sees right through him, even to the parts of his vile heart he himself would deny. "Then," Asahi whispers, greed in every syllable, "permit me the pleasure of your person."  
  
Zenos does not react, not strongly, but Asahi's watchful eyes catch the barest quirk of a fine blond brow. "Surely you had your fill of knots in that brothel?" the prince drawls, with neither judgment nor disdain in the heat of his voice.  
  
"It's nothing so crass," his viceroy pleads, with desperation in his dark eyes, knuckles taut beneath his translucent skin. He dares to creep a little closer. "I adore you, Lord Zenos. I worship you. Every other man that has ever taken me — I hunger to remember only you."  
  
The prince's blue eyes are empty and indifferent for a time, but they remain focused on the face of his eager hound. And finally, this close, Asahi sees something he has never before observed: his lord is _tired_. Listless. Even this, now, might only be an attempt to stave off that eternal ennui which must haunt his too-brilliant mind.   
  
Perhaps he has changed his mind, and realized that Asahi will fail to entertain him after all.  
  
And yet, after another long pause, his god stirs, flicks one beaded braid of hair over his shoulder in an unusually mortal movement. "I am disinterested in your frivolous idolatry," Zenos says, finally. "But you ask for a trifling thing. An evanescent ritual. The minds of dogs must be so small, to ask for so little."  
  
Asahi almost answers in the affirmative before the crown prince reaches out, seizes him by the underarm and thigh, and pulls the once and former courtesan into his lap.  
  
His pulse racing, too-loud in his ears and his neck and the beating of his heart, already throbbing between his legs, Asahi rests his hands on Zenos's chest to steady himself, and is surprised to find the prince solid and warm.  
  
"Very well. If you would rut, then rut. If you would breed, then breed. I expected no more from a beast." Zenos's grip upon his thigh could crush the veins in it, leave him bruised beyond all recognition. "Come, hound. Show me how your other masters trained you, and I will affirm that I am the last master you will serve."  
  
  
  
When at last Zenos deems that Asahi has had _quite_ enough of his reward, having had far more dry pleasure than he _deserves_ , he dismisses the viceroy from his chambers, leaving Asahi to limp, loosely dressed, back to his own bedchamber in the palace for a bath. He calls no guards save Maxima, his second-in-command and most trusted lieutenant — a rarity, for Asahi learned long ago that he ought to trust no one save himself.  
  
But Maxima can be trusted. Maxima is the closest thing to a good man that Garlemald will ever produce, which is why Asahi favors him so much. And the great irony of his and Maxima's relationship is that Maxima feels, very strongly, that he is doing everything wrong. That he should be kinder to the Empire's subjects. That some sort of blood tie should push him towards greater mercy when it comes to dealing with his own people.  
  
There are political divisions between them that are too strong to be bridged, and yet, all the same, Maxima dutifully reports to Asahi's chambers as ordered, fully dressed in his imperial armor, a gunblade which he is unlikely to use strapped across his back. It is good fun, Asahi thinks, to tease Maxima. The man surely has no interest in a Doman Hyur who is nearly thirty summers old and looks half that at best, but he always forgets himself — always turns to look, as is natural in conversation, and then averts his gaze while Asahi lounges in the bath.  
  
As Asahi takes too long to wash his legs, duly examining the marks Zenos has left on his skin, Maxima fingers the silken edge of his white kimono — the one that Asahi chose to wear after his appointment as viceroy for death, for purity, for the radiance of the sun. "May I ask of you an impertinent question, Lord Asahi?"  
  
"Is that not one such impertinent question?" Asahi hums, kicking his legs above the suds in the water. "You speak as if you expect me to refuse you. Go on. Ask what you will."  
  
Maxima's gloved fingers reach the seam of one sleeve, and then withdraw. "I know little of Doman culture, but is this not a garment for women?"  
  
"So it is," Asahi answers. "The selfsame sort of garment I have worn since I was a boy of seventeen. Are you not aware of what I was before I was appointed viceroy?"  
  
"No, I am... more than aware," Maxima replies haltingly, with a slightly disgruntled flare of his nostrils. The steam from the bath is beginning to fog his glasses. "I do not tell you this for you to reprimand them, but the least of our men mock you, my lord. They question your leadership. They fear you, and so they tell themselves they could have purchased you once. It is a matter of... of projecting power."  
  
"And they could have purchased me, had they enough coin, at the right time, and the right place."  
  
"But it..." The Garlean falters, kind of nature, and too pure to discuss his unspoken judgments. "It seems to me that if you are no longer... such a man, you need not force yourself to wear such things."  
  
"Should I be ashamed of what I was?" Asahi retorts. He slides more soap over the nape of his neck, sighing at the new memories such touch evokes. "Have I not the right to force my countrymen to remember what they made me?"  
  
Maxima's eyes are too full of misguided sympathy. "Do you blame your country for the man you were forced to become?"  
  
"Doma? Doma did not harm me any more than did the blazing sun," the younger man laughs. " _People_ harmed me, Maxima. Individuals with their individual stories and their individual histories and their individual families. Do you think that what happened to me was somehow unique to this land? That it would not have happened to me anywhere else in the Empire, or anywhere else in the world?"   
  
Maxima turns to look at Asahi then, a strong rejoinder surely on the tip of his tongue, but then he is reminded that the viceroy is bathing, and his pale eyes fall to the floor. "I only wish to know what drives you to hurt innocent children and splinter their families," he says at last. "I know that you do this in the name of Lord Zenos's hunt, but that... that seems to me a great madness."  
  
Asahi rests his head upon the edge of the tub. "You exhort me always to be kind," he says quietly. "And I ask you time and time again: what value is there in kindness? No one showed me kindness when I had need of it. They acted selfishly and then called it kindness to justify their actions. So why should I be kind to anyone when no one has ever been kind to me?"  
  
"I would show you kindness now," Maxima says, quietly.  
  
"Would you take me if I asked?"  
  
"That would not be kind to you."  
  
Asahi laughs again. Maxima will never understand, but he is close — so close to showing Asahi what he would think of as kindness. "Such a good man," he says, warmly. "Such an honorable man. You understand so much, but you have understood nothing, Maxima. I will retain you as long as you can suffer yourself to serve me here, to endure the injustices you must condone each and every day in imperial service, but you... you think to save me when I, like the rest of my wretched people, am beyond salvation."  
  
"And yet you are here with me now," Maxima insists, quite tellingly without anger. "You are not beyond salvation. And you have Lord Zenos's favor. You might yet start a new chapter in the history of the Empire."  
  
"I don't _want_ to write any such chapter, Maxima," Asahi announces, with a tone of finality. He drops his bar of soap into its dish. "I lived as a prostitute and I will die as Lord Zenos's whore. And then, when I am dead, I will let you rule Doma as you wish."  
  
  
  
_Ah, of course,_ he thinks. _This is how it truly ends._ In Doma Castle, amidst the rising waters, and the crumbling walls. _After so long — at last, the flood._ For once, he feels no fear, no pain. He does not even long for death. There is only euphoria, pure and blissful euphoria, the ecstasy of knowing that he did everything in his power to serve the one man he's ever loved. And Asahi is disappointed, in his own way — he has failed his liege lord, Doma is lost — and if only Lord Zenos had been the one to give him mercy instead — yes, that would have been beautiful. But now that is a privilege he will never earn.  
  
The sleeves of Asahi's kimono are heavy with moisture, and the ground is wet beneath his feet. His white kimono sticks to his skin, revealing everything, everything of what he was and what he still is, but there is one more thing — one more option better to him than becoming someone else's prey.  
  
He remembers the scent of the earth, and the dazzling sun, and then he decides that he isn't going to allow himself to die like that.  
  
"My master will come for you," Asahi says, with one final bitter smile, and then he lifts his revolver, with the last bullet in its chamber, and then everything, at last, is over.

**Author's Note:**

> both the title and opening quote are lyrics from the band yorushika, with translations by ejtranslations
> 
> shiden, ugetsu, and kagetsu are all characters from the samurai 60-70 questline, though they play non-canonical roles here
> 
> kohagi also plays a non-canonical role; in canon, she is a quest-giving npc from namai with no connection to jifuya
> 
> koi-koi is a hanafuda card game
> 
> kagema is a historical japanese term for a young male prostitute; read literally, the characters thereof mean "between the shadows," which asahi alludes to later


End file.
